


Tales of Dr. John H. Watson, Scourge of Two and One-Half Continents

by ingridmatthews



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Erotica, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-05
Updated: 2010-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson amuses a sick Holmes with tales of his sexual encounters past.  Possibly part of a series. Because Watson has a lot of hot stories to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of Dr. John H. Watson, Scourge of Two and One-Half Continents

~*~

Holmes doesn't get sick often, but when he does it's never a pleasant experience. His poor eating habits and general disdain for his body combine to weaken him to the point where any illness sends him right over the edge into a bedridden state, even for minor ailments such as a cold.

His misery was palpable and it fell to me to amuse him in any way I could think of. Unfortunately this particular cold came with a fever, leaving him weaker than usual, unable to deal with the rigors of chess or cards and unwilling to listen to me read the newspapers, the stories from which only served to frustrate him more.

So I did what I could to alleviate as many symptoms as possible and lay beside him, just close enough to comfort him through his trembling but not so close to smother him. He was restless and as is his wont when inactive, bored to a dangerous point, so I thought of another method to distract him.

"I could tell you a story," I suggested.

Holmes peered at me with bleary eyes. "About what?"

"I have some amusing tales from my days in the service. Or my youth. Take your pick."

His mouth twisted in a wry grin. "I want to hear stories about your rise to scourgehood."

"Scourgehood?" I asked, momentarily confused. I then laughed. "Oh, you mean my boasting about being the sexual scourge of three continents. Well, it's not all boasting I'm afraid."

"Then do tell." His eyes took on a wicked gleam, as if daring me to surprise him.

It was better than having him sneak off and do something foolish, like take a dose of cocaine or chase criminals while in this state, so I agreed. "I can tell you about the Maharani, if you like."

A smile lit his face. "Go on."

~*~

The Tale of the Maharani

When I was stationed in India, during those first months as an Army Surgeon serving in Her Majesty's forces, I found myself treating not only the soldiers under command there, but as this was a friendly province and we were technically at peace, I also took care of the locals whenever possible.

It was pleasant to help these people who had so little access to proper medical care, not to mention very educational for me. Eventually, I developed a bit of renown as a good doctor who wasn't afraid to treat some of the more unattractive ailments found in the subcontinent, such as leprosy and the like.

One day, a very well-dressed Indian gentleman put in a request to my commanding officer for me to attend to Her Highness, the Maharani, wife of the local king. This gentlemen, or the Pradhan as he was called, promised my commander unusual support of the king for any future endeavors of our forces if I would come and treat her, so off I was bundled, straight to the Maharaja's palace, some two leagues away.

I'll admit I was excited and pleased at this adventure, even more so when I was ushered inside an opulent palace with its gild and precious tiles, great tables of food and some of the most beautiful decor I'd ever seen. The Maharaja himself greeted me and I was surprised to see that he was a more than passingly handsome fellow, even younger than myself, perhaps just turned twenty. He spoke perfect English with that beautiful lilt so common to the peoples there and I was charmed as only a man who'd seen little more than the inside of a troop ship and a tent could be.

We sat together at a low table and he offered me food and drink while explaining his wife's problem. "She is very agitated and seems constantly distracted. Often, she twists her body in strange ways and moans throughout the night. Her hands constantly pull at her clothes, as if too hot and she thrashes through her baths, as if possessed," he explained, straight-forwardly, but I could tell he was distressed. "Some people are claiming that she is possessed, but I don't believe this the case. I love my wife, doctor, and only wish for her to be well."

"Of course, she's not possessed," I replied quickly. "Has she had any signs of fever recently? Any other physical symptoms, such as a rash or coughing?"

He shook his head. "The other doctors say she appears to be in perfect health but she is in a constant state of unhappiness."

"It sounds like hysteria," I said gently.

(It must be added here that I no longer believe that hysteria is anything more than the aggravation of a frustrated woman married to an inept or inattentive husband, but back then I was more naive, believing in the commonly held diagnosis of the day without too much question.)

"Do you think you can cure it?" he asked, his tone hopeful.

I thought for a moment before answering. The cure for hysteria was a delicate procedure, one that I wasn't sure he'd appreciate. So I explained it to him as clinically as possible and he looked taken aback, but agreed.

Under certain terms. "It must be done in my chambers. And I shall be present."

Again, I weighed the situation, realizing that much of my battalions' interest was at stake, so I cautiously agreed. We retired to his chambers, which were like none I'd ever seen before. The bed was a huge divan, covered in pillows and surrounded by hanging walls of sheer silks. I found myself slightly breathless once there, wondering if I'd agreed to a medical treatment or to something else entirely.

Incense was lit and the king clapped his hands twice. The Maharani entered, wearing nothing but two long ropes of pearls around her delicate neck and I nearly tripped backwards as she glided forward. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, huge dark eyes set in a perfect face and shining black hair that swung down past lithe hips. The sleek pearls slid over her breasts in the most enticing manner and I found myself in the enviable situation of seeing this great beauty lie languorously over the pillows, her restless legs spreading widely as if of their own accord.

If the Marharaja was annoyed with my obvious admiration, he didn't show it. Instead, he motioned for me to go to work, as he himself lay down next to her, soothing her forehead with his hand. I took off my jacket, which had suddenly become far too constricting and put my hand between her legs, to her private areas which I immediately felt were branding-iron hot and slick to the touch.

I circled her clitoris slowly and she arched straight into my hand, biting back a scream. Still not what was needed, so I sped up my touch, using my thumb instead and entering her with my other fingers, thrusting them in and out, watching her for the telltale signs of paroxysm.

Her husband watched this closely, curious and a little baffled. Immediately, I saw the problem and nodded to him. "Touch her," I said. "It will help."

He blinked at me while his wife looked up at him pleadingly. "Where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere," I said quietly, my fingers still working in and out with soft, slick sounds. "She is your beautiful wife. Touch her breasts, kiss her. Surely you do that anyway when you are alone with her."

He shook his head. "We were married very young. I know so little," he whispered, his voice fading away as he watched her writhe and groan beneath my hand.

She was still not reaching her climax, so I reached up and caressed her soft breast myself, showing him how to gently stimulate the nipples, which he imitated in turn. I told him to use his mouth and the poor Maharani nearly fainted when her husband finally understood what she desired, suckling at her breasts, hesitant at first, then with enthusiasm.

This scene didn't leave me unmoved and I found myself aching with an inconvenient erection that grew only worse when the Maharani shuddered to orgasm, her eyes clear and bright with adoration for her husband, who was still mouthing her as if he'd tasted pure wonder and could not get enough.

Finally, he looked up at me, very pleased. The Maharani also examined me with a suddenly sympathetic look and turned to whisper in her husband's ear. He laughed softly. "My dearest wife thinks you are in need of treatment yourself, Doctor," he said, sliding up and caressing my erection. "I cannot let her do this, I'm afraid, but I'd be glad to assist."

My mouth turned so dry that I couldn't find my voice.

The king undid my belt and buttons with nimble fingers while beside him, his wife watched, a smile playing over her lips. I felt paralyzed with desire and I didn't resist when he pushed me down into the pillows, dipping his head to my prick, kissing the tip before swallowing me whole.

Hips snapping forward, I cried out with senseless words while the Maharani's delicate fingers played with my hair, her smile turning cat-like and hungry. I was helpless beneath their twin touches and for a moment I wondered if this had been their plan all along, to reel me into some strange game but I found it hard to care as he continued to suck me expertly until I spent in his mouth.

We lay there for some time after that, touching and kissing in various combinations and it was only when evening fell that I was left there to dress myself before being escorted out, very politely, of course.

I was given a crimson silk box and a letter of recommendation to my commander before being taken back to my station. Inside the box was a single perfect pearl and I spent the rest of the evening in the admiring company of my fellow officers who labored under the misconception that I'd spent a tedious day in a lady's sickroom.

Little did they know.

~*~

By the time I'd finished my tale, Holmes' eyes were huge, his illness half-forgotten. "You can't be serious."

"What makes you think I'm not?" I replied, laughing. "I'll show you the box someday."

"What about the pearl?" he asked.

"Lost that in a card game the next week," I said casually. "Not all my vices are so sentimental."

His mouth dropped. "Now I know you're telling the truth. What a wonder you are. Is that the most sensational story you have?"

I brushed away some damp hair from his brow before kissing him, noting with some dissatisfaction that his fever had yet to abate. "Not at all. Want to hear another?"

He nodded quickly, like a boy who'd been offered some candy and I chuckled before launching into my next story.

~*~

The Captain's Tale

There was a general who was infamous for ordering regular beatings of his underlings, during a time when that sort of thing still happened in some of the far away places of Her Majesty's kingdom. Too many of his fellows obeyed those orders with a bit too much enthusiasm, one of them being a captain in my regiment.

Unfortunately, I'd caught his attention during one of his bad moods and was ordered into his office post-haste. Standing at attention, I wondered what was going to happen when he picked up his officer's crop and began to berate me for all my failings, real and imagined, punctuating his words with stern taps of the crop against my chest and shoulders.

As I'd been not been given permission to speak - in fact, I was denied it when I had dared to asked - I had to stand there silently at full attention for the better part of an hour while the taps turned into sharp cracks, and those mostly against my backside, with intermittent blows to the backs of my thighs.

It hurt like hell and I did all I could to stay silent and straight during this, but I finally broke down, gasping aloud in pain and begging him to stop. Instead of showing mercy, he merely shoved me over his desk and went at it twice as hard until I was sobbing and cowering on the floor, curled up into a ball.

Then, it appeared he was satisfied. "Dismissed," he said, as if nothing untoward had happened.

Later, my orderly Murray saw to my hurts with as much indignation and anger as I'd ever seen him muster. Perhaps it was from an overabundance of sympathy but I soon found myself wrapped in his comforting embrace, soothing my injuries with tender hands and lips that traced over my bruises and welts with loving affection.

The contrast between the brutal beating and the gentle lovemaking that followed was so enticing, surrounding me in such a haze of pleasure, I found myself craving a repeat performance of the entire ordeal, starting with the Captain's crop.

I set to work to catch his disfavor and he was quick to oblige me, eventually dispensing with the preliminaries and getting right to work, bending me over whatever was available and whipping away on any covered part he could reach until I couldn't take anymore. At some points I found myself crawling over his floor on my hands and knees, letting him place the crop in my mouth and he'd watch me place it at his feet, his interest obvious above me.

But he never touched me, except to hit me. Afterwards, I would fall back into poor Murray's arms and he would practically weep over what the brute was doing, not realizing that I was not only allowing the Captain to hurt me, but encouraging him. For hours he'd kiss and whisper comfort to me and I'd devour his boundless affection like a man starving, every kind touch made that much sweeter by the cruelty that preceded it.

This went on until the war started in earnest and the Captain lost his life early in the gambit, as I also fell to the enemy's bullets, but not fatally, due only to my dear Murray's devotion and courage.

~*~

By this time Holmes was sitting up in our bed, his fever lessened. I went to fetch him soup and watched as he ate it, his thoughtful eyes gazing into mine. "That's an interesting one. Did you ever tell your friend the truth?"

"No," I said plainly. "I don't think it would have made that much of a difference in the end. Murray was a forgiving chap."

"I can't wait to hear what other terrors lie in your brain attic. Or perhaps I should call it your pants attic?" Holmes said and I chuckled at his sarcastic tone.

"If I'm boring you, I can stop."

"Don't you dare. Next, please."

~*~

A Tale From Mombasa

During the late teen years of my misspent youth, my desperate father placed me on a missionary boat headed to British East Africa in hopes of correcting my follies and tempering my bad behavior with a dose of hard work in a harsh land, all done in the name of God.

I found myself in Mombasa, guest of the local council head and thus my 'hard' life began. The head was a very dignified, educated African man who had a wife just as intelligent and solemn as himself as well as a daughter who was as beautiful as a sunset, with dark, twinkling eyes and a wickedly clever smile.

Immediately, I threw aside God's work and proceeded to woo the daughter in secret. I met with great success, enjoying clandestine trips to her room at night where we giggled and played about like naughty children, right under her parent's noses.

The house was stuffy at night. Often we'd work up such a sweat that we found it hard to gain purchase against one another, sliding and slipping across each other's heated skin and we both found this very arousing, being able to touch but virtually unable to complete any kind of meaningful penetration.

Needless to say we had great fun, made better when she found a vial of rare oil in her mother's cosmetic case. What an evening we had, covered in sweet-scented oil and sliding over the bed and each other with naked abandon. We eventually fell to the floor and continued there and when I finally got myself inside of her and was able to stay there, it was as close to heaven as I'd ever come to at that point.

That was, until the next morning when her mother discovered the empty oil bottle and the condition of her beloved daughter's sheets.

There was cursing in a variety of languages and shotgun blasts rang in my ears as I made a run for it, back to ship and homeland where I'll swear to God and all his angels that while I might not have been the first Englishman thrown out of Kenya wearing nothing but his underwear, I certainly won't be the last.

~*~

Holmes blew his nose into one of my better handkerchiefs, possibly just to annoy me. "I like that story. It clears up the mystery of the third continent. But I've yet to hear of your European adventures."

"I'm having one now," I said, nipping at his neck. "Isn't that enough?"

"Come on, I'm almost better. One more."

"All right, last one."

~*~

A London Tale

When I returned from the war, as broken as a man could be, I found myself in need of inexpensive lodgings ...

~*~

"I know this one!" Holmes complained.

"That's not my fault," I replied with a shrug. "I can embellish it, if you like, but I'd rather not."

Holmes frowned, a little sadly. "Do you think it needs it? You've certainly have had more exciting times than this."

Smiling, I rolled over and pressed Holmes to the mattress, pinning his wrists above his head. His nose was red from his cold and he was pouting slightly, as if my tales had disconcerted him. "How can you say you know my final story without realizing that it's the most exciting, most incredible one of all?"

He grinned then, beautiful even with bloodshot eyes and wan cheeks and I kissed him deeply, savoring him. There was no other way to tell him that this adventure, the one of him and I and my love for him was the highlight of my life and all the tales that had gone before were only leading me to this point ... and him.

Or maybe, brilliant man that he was, he already knew.

~*~  
end

Oh, Watson. You slut. ;)

Feedback is always welcome.


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